Cellar Door
by HelsinkiAngels
Summary: Norway is gone, taken by Sweden after yet another war. Without Norway's presence, Denmark is left to battle his own fracturing mind, and too soon his grieving turns to an unpredictable fury - the likes of which Iceland had never anticipated when he'd promised his brother he would look after Denmark. Loosely based on the events just after the SatW strip 'Not Norway'.
1. Cain & Abel

"Iceland."

Norway sat uncomfortably close, as if any distance might make him disappear into thin air. Iceland, sitting across from him, looked every-what-way _except_ into his brother's eyes, until Norway leaned in, forcing him to look forward.

"Are you listening?" Norway demanded.

"Yeah. I just think you're overreacting. Sweden can't keep you forever. It'll be over in no time."

"Denmark doesn't think so."

"Denmark _always_ thinks you won't come back! You go fishing and you're not gone five minutes before he thinks you got eaten by a sea monster or something."

Norway gave a huff of frustration. "That's my point! Pay attention, Iceland; this is serious, and we don't have a lot of time. I need you to do something for me."

"Okay..."

"You need to look after Denmark while I'm gone."

"_What!_ I'm not-"

"Shut up! Let me explain. He's really going to need someone to talk to, and I don't know if I'll ever be allowed to visit. I don't trust Greenland to do anything besides yell at him, and he doesn't even know that Faroes exists half the time. So you're his best bet."

"Oh, come on!"

"_Lillebror_."

Iceland just stared at him. _Lillebror...?_ Norway hadn't called him that in _years_. Not since he was small...

"Please. If you don't do this for Denmark, at least do it for me."

Iceland fidgeted. He looked away again until Norway grabbed him by the jaw and turned his head back. Iceland mumbled something that may or may not have been a suitable response.

"Time's up," came Sweden's bored voice then, as he strolled through the door and set a heavy hand on Norway's shoulder.

"Iceland, promise me you'll look after him!" Norway pleaded.

Maybe it was the triumphant smirk Sweden had on his face that did it. Or maybe Iceland had lost his sanity (something he dismissed at once; he refused to go mad unless sharks became extinct and parachutes became a rare antiquity). Whatever it was, he finally bit the bullet, just as Sweden began dragging Norway away.

"Okay," Iceland said hurriedly, standing to block Sweden's progress. "I promise. For you."

Setting a single finger on Iceland's chest and daintily prodding him aside, Sweden took his exit, and the last Iceland saw of his brother was the lost look on Norway's face, before the door slammed shut, severing contact.


	2. Scintillation

_**Warning**: **This chapter contains some graphic references to domestic abuse/neglect. Proceed at your own discretion.**_

* * *

_'I promise.' Whose brilliant idea was this again? Oh, that's right. Norderp. No... Dumbway. Nordumb? Derpway... goddammit, Norway._

"Why couldn't you just keep your mouth shut?!" Greenland hissed, cutting the thoughts down in an instant.

Iceland could not give much reply. He was busy watching Denmark, eyes traveling back and forth.

If the nation had paced any faster and any more furiously, he would have worn burning, foot-shaped holes through the floor. He tugged at his hair. Then bit his nails. Then went back to tugging and muttering to himself. Whenever he turned in their direction, the three colonies would flinch away, though they could not get far - being lashed together in a bunch by rope tends to restrict movement like that.

When it seemed Denmark would continue like this forever, Iceland gave another experimental tug at his bonds, shifting the entire group forward a bit and earning a glare from Greenland.

"Denmark," Iceland said cautiously, ignoring him, "Come on. This is silly. Just listen for a moment!"

The pacing stopped. With his back to them, Denmark stood frozen. He stopped pulling his hair, hands slowly falling to his sides. Satisfied that he at least had Denmark's attention, Iceland continued.

"We can work this out. Sweden is just going through some kind of power trip. It won't last, and before you know it, Norway-"

"Not Norway."

Denmark's voice trembled almost as much as he did. He did not turn around.

Iceland sighed. "I know you miss him, but-"

"NOT NORWAY!"

Everyone cringed, and Faroes and Greenland began trying to scoot away as Denmark whipped around. His anger was back - neither of them wanted a repeat of the abrupt assault he had unleashed during Iceland's first attempts at persuasion.

Iceland was not free of fear as Denmark stalked forward, but he resisted the snail's pace escape of the others, determined to face up to Denmark.

"Calm down," he urged, looking Denmark in the eye. "Please, listen. We can talk about this."

Denmark stopped, and Iceland set himself up to continue - only to find Denmark scowling, his upper lip curling.

"Stop sparkling," he said quietly.

Iceland frowned. "...what?"

One more step forward - this time slow and deliberate - brought Denmark right up close to the group. Greenland and Faroes quit their useless scrambling, too aware of the presence of their sovereign. Denmark's gaze, though, was fixed on Iceland.

"You're _happy_!" Denmark accused. "Why are you happy?!"

"I'm not happy!" Iceland protested. "I'm just as mad at Sweden as you are, you know."

"Don't say his name again!"

"But-"

Denmark slapped him, hard enough that his goggles went flying, skittering over the floor. Iceland gasped, gritting his teeth, then recovered, looking balefully back up at Denmark.

"Stop sparkling!" Denmark barked again, raising his hand.

"I can't! It doesn't work like that!"

Another harsh slap defied Iceland's statement. As he leaned over, strained against the rope, a single, incipient drop of blood fell from his nose, and as it hit the floor, the light of his sparkles faded slightly. Iceland stared down in shock at that little circle of red that grew as other drops slowly started to follow it, and some inkling of dread snuck up in the back of his mind.

He didn't have time to dig it out of his thoughts. Denmark was moving again. Fearing another strike, Iceland kept his head down, though it never came; instead, he, Faroes and Greenland all felt a sudden jerk, as Denmark grabbed the bindings and began hauling them across the house.

"Sparkles, no Norway, not happy," Denmark muttered. "No Norway, sparkles, not happy. Norway, no sparkles..."

He paused in his rant and march, looking oddly at his colonies. Iceland saw some stroke of conclusion flash in Denmark's eyes, before the nation continued dragging them, nodding.

"No sparkles, Norway, happy," he said with finality, as he stopped in front of the door to the cellar.

He studied the door, speaking under his breath and swaying on his heels. Then he opened the door, dragged his captives through, and pushed them to the edge of the steps. Iceland, closest to him, couldn't stop the cold shiver that ran through him as Denmark stood there, looking vacant.

"Not Norway," Denmark whispered.

He tugged the rope knot loose, set his foot on Iceland's chest, and with startling power, suddenly kicked the entire group down the steps in a chaotic tumble.

Steps, Denmark, floor, steps, ceiling, steps, Greenland's elbow - and then a painful impact that sent the back of Iceland's head slamming into the ground. The trio lay sprawled like this at the bottom of the stairs, too dazed to get up as Denmark finally turned away, shutting the door.

The only light now remained above Iceland, where his sparkles now swam like transparent ghosts, made pathetic by the crushing dark and damp of the basement.


	3. Fishy Business

The sound of frantic steps woke Iceland from his makeshift 'bed' on the floor. He reached up by instinct to move his goggles so he could rub his eyes. But the goggles weren't there, he remembered a second later. The same person who'd taken them from him was dashing down the stairs, lighting up a torch as he went, and completely blinding Iceland.

Seconds later, Iceland felt himself being poked by Denmark. He squinted up at his sovereign, frowning as he saw the troubled expression Denmark wore.

"I have a surprise for you," Denmark blurted.

"A surprise?"

Iceland stood up, keeping a wary eye on Denmark, who kept staring at him expectantly, his hand hidden behind his back. The pair of them stood in awkward silence, face to face, for a full minute, before Denmark took a tentative step forward. Iceland shuffled his feet, uncomfortable at the proximity of the little nation. But he stayed put, waiting.

"I want you to talk before I give it to you," Denmark added.

"Talk?" Iceland said, puzzled. "Talk about what?"

"About Norway."

A surge of relief ran through Iceland, and he relaxed. "Oh. Well... we can talk, if you want. I'm glad you're finally coming round, Denmark, because-"

Denmark slowly shook his head, and the look in his eye made Iceland stop abruptly, his relief shot dead.

"I don't want to talk _to_ you," Denmark said, "I want _you_ to talk. Tell me about Norway."

"Um... I'm not sure I can tell you anything you don't already know."

"Tell me anyway!" Denmark demanded, his tone suddenly short. "Tell me about his life."

"Okay. Alright," Iceland took a step back uneasily. "Uh... I guess most days he spends down at the creek fishing. When he's not doing that, he-"

"No!" Denmark snapped. "Not like that!"

"I... don't know what you want from me."

Denmark stood trembling, his face growing redder by the second while a series of conflicted expressions flashed by. He gritted his teeth, and Iceland took another step back and pressed against the wall, bracing himself.

But Denmark did not explode into a screaming fit of feral rage, and he did not attempt to pummel Iceland or wreck the room. Iceland stared, perplexed at Denmark's apparently permanent state of incomplete meltdown.

Denmark took in a deep breath. "You have to say it right," he said, strained. "You have to say it like he would."

Iceland grimaced as he finally understood the request. "Denmark-"

He stopped himself right there. Denmark had just given a serious nervous twitch, fingers curling into a fist. His arm seemed to have a life of its own, and he obviously worked with great difficulty to control himself. Iceland held his breath.

"Talk."

"Alright," Iceland said quickly, swallowing. "Okay. Um... well, I like to go fishing a lot..."

He monologued, babbling out random information from Norway's life as if it were all his own. And the longer he spoke, the closer Denmark got, appearing... disturbingly hopeful. He never took his eyes from Iceland, and Iceland's unease kept growing the more his ruler kept up that _strange_ look.

Iceland faltered when Denmark, after some time, abruptly eliminated the gap between them and surged forward to hug him tightly around the middle. Fighting the automatic urge to shove him away, Iceland bore the contact stiffly, his patience only kept up by his promise to Norway.

Denmark's hug also revealed what was in his hand: one small, slightly off-looking fish. He pulled away from Iceland for a minute, toying with the dead animal, then shyly offered it to Iceland. Feeling slightly sick, Iceland reached out and took the fish from him, then tried to give Denmark a friendly smile. He failed, and Denmark turned and left, without another word, trudging back up the steps and mumbling a Norwegian folk tune to himself.

Iceland stared at the offering long after the door upstairs had shut, trying to wrap his head around what had just happened. He was pulled from his thoughts by a slight shuffling noise from his left.

Greenland emerged from the dark, his eyes hollow and fixed hungrily on the fish.

"Is that food?"

Iceland looked at Greenland, then back at the fish. Then back at Greenland. He did not know how to answer.


	4. The Drunken Dinner

_**Warning**: **This chapter contains some graphic references to domestic abuse/neglect. Proceed at your own discretion.**_

* * *

Since the episode with the fish, Iceland watched Denmark's moods swing about like a pendulum. Or, rather, like one of those little desk toy pendulums someone had thrown out the 25th floor of an office tower during a mental breakdown, in the middle of a hurricane.

Denmark had begun letting his colonies out periodically, though they avoided him like the plague, and when they couldn't avoid him, one or all of them would end up back in the basement, shivering and bruised. Regardless of Denmark's unpredictable freak-outs, however, Iceland took their release as a slightly positive sign of Denmark's gradual recovery from losing Norway, though he was wary of becoming too hopeful; that demented smile Denmark always had on around him haunted him.

One evening, while Iceland sat contemplating the floor of the basement, Denmark returned again.

All the doubts Iceland had about his sovereign's gradual recovery churned inside him. Mentally, he prepared himself for another oddball bout of role-playing, and he watched Denmark trot down the stairs, calculating.

Yes, there it was - that weird grin was back. But this time, Denmark was accompanied by a massive bottle of... something. It looked like a product of one of Finland's breweries, and perhaps it was. Whatever had once been inside that bottle was no longer there, however. The alcohol had taken up the task of painting Denmark's skin a lovely, flushed shade of red, and it was alcohol that danced Denmark the last few steps towards Iceland.

Instead of hanging back as he had done in their last such encounter, Denmark stumbled and staggered into Iceland, grabbing hold of his shoulder and hanging on him like a dead weight. Iceland twitched.

"Iceland!" Denmark blurted, swaying. "You wouldn't BELIEVE what I did!"

"And what did you do?" Iceland replied, trying to appease him.

"I made a... a... whatsit. That thing where people eat? Like, ah, like all the food's together and stuff on a table."

Iceland wrinkled his nose at the stench of Denmark's breath. "Dinner?"

"That one," Denmark nodded knowingly. He kept nodding long after he should have stopped. "I made it for _you!_"

"Uh. Thank you?" _I think..._

"I knew you'd say that!" Denmark squawked, releasing Iceland to clap his hands. "C'mon. Upstairs."

Iceland was not in the mood to argue, though he absently brushed his shoulder where Denmark had touched him. Whatever Denmark's idea of a meal was probably involved a pile of smorgasbord the size of the aforementioned office block in height. Which, when Iceland considered it, actually sounded fantastic to his growling stomach, not to mention he really disliked the rib bones that were gradually beginning to poke out from his chest.

He turned, waving at Faroes and Greenland, then giving a thumbs up. They rushed forth from the dark, trusting Iceland and lining up up behind him, just as eager to eat something besides the meager rations Denmark bestowed on them (when he remembered to).

Iceland flashed an encouraging grin at his friends. The smile was genuine, rather than the forced cheer he usually had to resort to, and the doubt inside him was fading to background noise again. Denmark looked less than thrilled that Iceland had invited the others. He said nothing, however, and led the trio up the steps, almost falling back twice before Iceland caught and steadied him.

There was indeed food on the table, and while it had obviously been clumsily prepared after Denmark's umpteenth drink, it was fabulous to Iceland's hunger-vision. Something that looked like a little more than slightly overcooked pork took up the middle, along with an enormous bowl of potatoes, and yet another enormous platter of fish.

Denmark swept his arms out, presenting the table.

"Ta-da!" he said, recovering his balance from the movement. "You like fish and potatoes, right?" he added, looking hopefully at Iceland. "I added some pork cause pork is _good_. You'll like it. Norway liked fish..."

Iceland nodded to hide the cringe at Denmark's patheticness. He held out his arm to stop Greenland and Faroes from rushing to the table to devour the food outright. Denmark clapped happily again and took Iceland by the front of the shirt, guiding him to a chair and shoving him down rather forcefully. He did not do the same for Greenland and Faroes, but they seated themselves well enough.

Denmark took his own place, almost missing the chair. Then, he cursed under his breath and stood up again, bumbling over to the spirits cabinet. He dug around inside, produced two bottles of vodka, and brought them to Iceland's end of the table, uncapping one. Standing beside Iceland, he offered the open bottle, waiting. Iceland just blinked.

"Maybe a glass would be b-"

He was cut off as Denmark, impatient, grabbed Iceland and stuffed the end of the bottle into his mouth.

"Drink!" Denmark ordered.

Acutely aware of how hard Denmark was gripping him, Iceland forced himself to comply, drinking as Denmark tipped the Finnish-made potato rocket fuel down his throat. The stuff burned, and Iceland's eyes watered as he tried to decide whether it would be better to displease Denmark by spitting it out. Still, he fought, until Faroes, growing disturbed, slammed his hand on the table.

"Stop! You're choking him!"

"Shhh!" Greenland warned, too late.

The outburst had worked. Denmark gave a heavily delayed jolt, and in his reflexive hop, he pulled the bottle free, leaving Iceland covered in vodka and hacking out half a lung. Denmark was not surprised for long, however, because it hadn't been the table-slam that had made him jump.

He wheeled furiously on Faroes, eyes red with more than inebriation. The small colony realized his mistake and cowered, covering his head in anticipation of what was to come. Denmark grabbed the unopened bottle by the neck, and started to advance, growling.

Against his better judgment, Iceland glanced up from his recovery, and reacted. He reached out at the last second, hooking two fingers through the belt loop of Denmark's trousers, and yanking back, just as Denmark snarled and swung the vodka bottle. The drunken nation missed, and his attention returned at once to Iceland.

He seemed conflicted then, and Iceland saw it in his face. Denmark's weapon arm twitched, and Iceland rallied his thoughts, not wishing to get hit by vodka on the outside as well as the inside. He spoke the first thing that came to his mind.

"The food's getting cold," he said hoarsely. "I wouldn't want to see your dinner ruined."

And for some peculiar reason, that had been the right thing to say. Denmark blinked slowly, narrowing his eyes at Iceland in confusion. Iceland waited, tense, then allowed himself to breathe again as Denmark seemed to recognize this mundane fact. He set the bottle down on the table sedately, looking sheepish.

"Sorry, Norway," he mumbled.

There was something to be said of the silence that hung after this remark - it was thick enough to be carved and added to the table as a suitable compliment to the blackened pork. Denmark caught himself just a second after the others did, and his ashamed blush disappeared as he looked up and met Iceland's gaze. Iceland wanted to be surprised; were it so easy, he could have brushed it off as nothing more than a mistake.

But he wasn't surprised, and that longing behind Denmark's eyes did not go away.


	5. Harðstjórn

A/N:_ Sort of realized during final formatting that this was a rather short chapter. Oh well. May be fixed later to make up for this.  
_

_**Warning (again)**: **This chapter contains graphic references to domestic abuse/neglect. Proceed at your own discretion.  
**_

* * *

Denmark never invited them to dinner again, and as Iceland watched, all the progress he thought his ruler had made dropped away in pieces, revealing just how stupidly flimsy the hope for improvement had been. They were back to being stuck in the basement, and when days had passed without Denmark bringing any food, Iceland - fed up, dizzy and ravenous - switched gears. He got up from the floor, and marched up the stairs once more, not really certain he cared if it was against one of Denmark's growing list of rules. At the top, he paused, staring at the door, his fingers resting on the handle. He tried turning it - of course, it was locked.

Time to muster some courage, then.

"Denmark!" he called, knocking. "Can you hear me?"

He set his ear to the door, listening. There was silence. Was he out of the house? It was unlikely, though the paranoid thought flowered in Iceland's mind that he might have left permanently. Uncomfortable with the idea of being locked in here alone, Iceland pressed down more firmly on the handle. It resisted him, but the door was old. He gave it a good, sharp shove, with as much strength he could, and he grinned in triumph as he heard the lock give a little metallic groan of protest.

A sound behind him made him start, fearful of discovery by Denmark. When his rational thoughts overcame his instincts and reminded him that Denmark wasn't in the basement, he peered down the steps.

"What the hell are you doing?" Greenland whispered harshly.

"Breaking the door," Iceland replied, turning back to his task.

"Are you _insane?!_ He'll kill you, you idiot!"

"Sooner that than starvation," Iceland said. "Ah! Got it."

The door gave a clunk as Iceland snapped its flimsy defenses. Parts of the door handle clattered loudly to the floor, but Iceland ignored this and forced his way through. From below, he heard Greenland and Faroes hurrying up after him. He waited, then led them into the kitchen - the one place that could have been made entirely of gold, for the way the trio rushed at it and began pillaging.

When they were through with scavenging, the whole place looked like Ireland, post-shorline raid. And exactly as he had done on those raiding occasions, Iceland carried as much food as he could get his hands on, bringing it out of the kitchen. He dashed back down to the basement to begin hiding things, in the event that Denmark caught them. Breaking the door would harbor enough punishment alone - Iceland didn't like to think what would happen if Denmark discovered they had devastated his kitchen, as well.

Looking back, Iceland often regretted having taken to hiding the food first, rather than searching for signs of Denmark. Because as he shoved a hefty tin of sardines into a nice niche in the busted wall, he heard the most piercing, barbaric scream, and the sound made his blood run cold.

He dropped the last few items and took steps three at a time, bounding, aware every second that the howling he could hear was Denmark's inner lunatic being unleashed. He sprinted around the corner, slammed into the wall with his momentum, then scrambled to the kitchen.

Greenland collided with him trying to get out the door. He fell, recovered, and continued, fleeing back to the false safety of the basement. Iceland had no time to tell him to hide elsewhere; Denmark was gibbering and screeching, throwing food, utensils, pans and everything else left and right as he turned a regular kitchen mess into a full war zone.

Faroes was huddled beneath the table, rocking himself, praying that Denmark would be too blind with anger to see him. He was wrong, and Iceland knew it. He charged, adrenaline-vision slowing things to a crawl as Denmark seized the heaviest pan in the kitchen and advanced on Faroes with it. In terror, Faroes scooted away, backing into the wall. Denmark raised the pan - the same way he had done with the vodka bottle - and went flying as Iceland tackled him.

Since this isn't a Bruce Willis screenplay where a man outnumbered and outgunned somehow manages to magically win and save the day, we are forced to resort to a more accurate depiction of this fight. Like, say, a Youtube video tutorial on how to make oranges into pulp. Or a documentary highlighting why, exactly, Denmark carried the famous title of King of the North.

Iceland lost count of the number of times that pan came down on him, and after a certain point, his body did the kind thing and sent him into a daze that overrode pain with a torrent of endorphins. He was only vaguely aware that Denmark had stopped when, through a veil of spinning, dancing and dying sparkles, he saw his ruler retreat and throw the pan down in frustration. Denmark joined it and Iceland on the floor a minute later, sliding down against the wall as he burst into tears.

In Iceland's mind, Norway's warnings came back, compelling him in his delirious state to try to comfort Denmark. To say it was okay, really - it was not his fault. Why was he crying? Iceland started laughing, not certain why he found this funny, but doing so anyway. He couldn't stop, conflicted between the agony laughing was causing him, and the impulsive urge to continue, regardless of the sickening spin the room had taken to performing.


	6. Ronni Nörvig

_**Warning: Some... pretty bizarre themes. Also, language.**_

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Time after that seemed to have been thrown out the window, right after the toy pendulum. All Iceland knew was that he had been giggling madly a moment ago. Now, he was breathing hard, the memory of laughter giving way to more pain, this time unchecked by any natural high. As his heartbeat hammered in his ears, he looked about, and saw that the kitchen had somehow morphed into Denmark's bedroom. Trying to blink away the double-vision, Iceland focused on the nearest object to calibrate his brain. He was rewarded with more confusion as he finally found focus, the image before him settling into a...

A candle?

Yes, that certainly was a candle. It was red, and burning with a funny scent, and surrounded by a sea of other candles - all of them red, white or blue, varying in some pattern he couldn't make out. At the center of this arrangement, a glass vase stood, filled with a bouquet of neatly-decorated fish.

Weirder than this, however, were the series of echoing mutters coming from somewhere nearby. Iceland wondered if he had inadvertently sleepwalked into Hekla's opening and encountered more of those poor sods who sought to win over his demons by chanting at them.

Some time later - he was not sure how much - he understood that it was Denmark he was hearing. And this wasn't chanting, but repetitive muttering. Iceland felt something brush against his head, and he groggily stared up, seeing his ruler standing above him, face still streaked with tears, and strangely solemn.

Awareness began to creep up on Iceland, and once it came, he really wished he had just stayed in the doolally place where he could safely wonder if he was dreaming. Reality, like the bitch that it was, prompted him slowly into the realization that Denmark was completely naked.

He was covered in some kind of paint, too. Paint that matched the candles, and matched the pattern the candles made. He stood in some ritualistic pose, raising something above Iceland in both hands, his arms outstretched dramatically, as if he held a piece of the true cross. Only, this 'sacred' relic was fluffy, and bore a natural yellow color.

Iceland could do nothing as Denmark lowered the fuzz and - with ceremony - crowned it upon Iceland's head. It was only when he felt the tightening of some kind of band that Iceland realized what it was.

A wig. It was a curly wig.

Panicked, Iceland managed to raise his head, wincing, and saw that Denmark had dressed him. Now, his flag was gone, replaced by a different shirt, one that was too big and baggy for him. It, too, matched the patterns of the candles, and with a sickened feeling, Iceland finally got his battered brain to comprehend that it was a Norwegian flag. Gone, too, were his jeans and jump boots, and in their absence, brown cargo pants and a pair of sturdy hiking boots took up his legs.

Iceland was not sure which disturbed him more: the fact that he was too obviously decked in Norway's old clothes, or the fact that Denmark had stripped him while he had been under. He flushed scarlet when he felt the unfamiliarity of Norway's boxer shorts around his waist.

"Denmark..." he rasped.

"Shh. Relax," Denmark whispered, putting a finger to Iceland's lips. "Everything's gonna be okay. I found a way out."

Confusing as this statement was, Iceland could not help but suspect the meaning. He urged his body into motion, struggling to rise from Denmark's bed. He was frustratingly weak, though, and Denmark just held a hand to his chest, keeping him down with ease, while he drew a spray bottle from the bed stand.

"Last touch," Denmark muttered, aiming it at Iceland.

He pressed down on the trigger, and Iceland shut his eyes and coughed, smelling the fish-scented cologne his brother wore on a daily basis. While he recovered from the attack of the spritzer, Iceland heard Denmark speak again.

"Get him outside. Don't let anyone see you."

Several hands grabbed Iceland then. He felt himself being lifted off the bed, and as he opened his eyes again, he was startled to see both Greenland and Faroes pulling him up. He tried to pull out of their hold, but they moved too quickly, and perhaps it was better that they held him; he wasn't sure he could stand on his own.

He noticed that Denmark had not followed. Glancing back, he was just in time to see Denmark bend down to pick up a folded duvet from the floor. Iceland lost sight of him around the corner just as he was unfurling the cloth, and when Iceland noticed he still hadn't followed, he returned his attention forward, intent on extracting information from his terrified companions while they walked him out the front door and into the dark.

"What's going on?" he asked.

Neither Greenland nor Faroes replied, until Iceland asked again, in annoyance.

"He's gone nuts," Faroes whispered. "Absolutely nuts."

"I see that."

"After you passed out, he started crawling around in circles talking to himself," Faroes continued, nervously peeking back every few seconds. "He kept saying he'd killed you."

"I wish he had," Iceland complained. "Why do we even have a pan that big?!"

"But listen, Iceland," Greenland put in. "Here's the thing: he's not convinced that he killed _you_, specifically."

Iceland blinked. "You lost me here..."

He didn't get any more out of them, however. Denmark could be heard running up behind them, and he appeared carrying the duvet and a large lamp. He barged past, leading the way.

Wherever they were going, it was taking forever. Iceland did the best he could not to drag his weight for his struggling friends, and just as he started debating on whether to call for a stop so he could scratch at the madly-itching wig, they came to their destination.

Denmark marched the final few strides to the little dock, then jumped down into a small sailboat. He arranged the duvet and lantern, then beckoned impatiently to Greenland and Faroes, who struggled to get Iceland into the boat. They barely got in before Denmark unhitched the rope, then drew out a pair of oars and shoved them at Greenland.

The sea was calm and cold, with only a slight wind to carry the sail once they had cleared the dock. Iceland shivered where he lay on the boards, and Denmark scooted down beside him, wrapping him in the duvet. Iceland decided that now was as good a time as any to address the situation, given Denmark's unusually caring demeanor.

"Denmark, where are we going? Can I take the wig off?"

"No," Denmark said, ignoring the first question.

Iceland sighed. "I'm not Norway. Okay? Please, you have to see that."

"You're right," Denmark replied, his voice flat. "You're not Norway."

Iceland faltered in what would have been a lengthy argument to try to convince Denmark that he couldn't be Norway. At a loss for what to say, he fell silent, staring at the sky, dumbstruck. He didn't have to say anything, though, because Denmark was not finished.

"Every time I hear you talk, it surprises me, Iceland," he said quietly. "I always think that Norway is back - that maybe I just had a really crazy dream, and that I would find him there, like he'd always been. But every single time, it's always _you,_" he spat the word. "I don't want _you_!"

"Likewise," Iceland grumped, before he could stop himself.

Denmark scowled at him, but said no more. Iceland was content to let him be, pulling the duvet closer to himself to keep out the cold, while the boat carried on.

He knew sleep had claimed him at some point, because he was next woken by the sound of oars rattling on the bottom of the boat. Gingerly, he sat up, scratching at the wig. They were coming into another dock, and this one looked a little more well-kept. There was also a single flag pole perched on the leading light stand, and as the wind picked up the banner, a recognizable flag fluttered, only barely visible under the moon.

"Sweden's house?!" Iceland blurted.

Denmark clamped a hand over his mouth. "Shut up!" he hissed. "He'll hear you!"

Iceland pushed his hand away. "What the _fuck_ is going on, Denmark?!"

And again, there was no reply. The boat glided in, with Faroes expertly keeping the sides from grinding with the wood of the dock. In the same hurried fashion as he had done when boarding, Denmark gripped the edge of the dock and hauled himself up, while Greenland and Faroes got Iceland out. This time, they moved without the lantern, hurrying in a mass towards the distinguished shape of a building. There were no lights in the house, and Iceland estimated it to be the ass-crack of dawn. Sweden would be asleep.

Still clueless to the goal here, but suspecting answers every moment, Iceland allowed his friends to carry him in through the back door as Denmark quietly broke in. They set him down on the ground inside, waiting while Denmark covertly scouted the house like a naked Celt, sans undying hate for everything resembling a Roman. He evaporated into several rooms, hopping about wildly, before returning.

"Third room on the left," he said softly, his voice carrying an anxious shiver. "Carry him _quietly_. I don't want the whole place down on top of us."

They moved again. Resigned to Denmark's strange and dangerous plans, Iceland limped along as silently as he could, for the first bedroom door was open, and a glance revealed the sleeping form of Sweden, curled up in his bed with his dreams of domination. Some part of Iceland wished Sweden would wake up, so that the shock value of Denmark's body paint extravaganza might convince him to just release Norway uncontested.

It wasn't to be. Impatient with the slow progress Greenland and Faroes were making, Denmark grabbed Iceland and helped haul him the final distance. He released his colony when they were in, almost causing Iceland to fall in his desperate rush to reach Norway.

In spite of everything, Iceland found a strange surge of happiness at the sight of his brother, snoring softly on the bed. It had, after all, been... how many weeks now? Iceland could not recall.

Evidently, Denmark could, because he urgently began to paw at Norway, until simply poking his arm was not enough. He pulled on his friend, then turned the action into a whimpering hug as Norway grumbled and came awake.

"Sweden, what are you..." Norway trailed off as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. "Denmark?!"

"It's you!" Denmark squeaked, barely remembering to keep his voice low. "It's you, it's you!"

"What are you doing here?" Norway whispered, sitting up and holding Denmark. "God, does Sweden even know you're here?"

"We snuck in," Denmark admitted through Norway's shoulder. "I couldn't take it anymore, Norway!"

"'We'?"

Norway squinted into the dark, and Iceland met his gaze from where Greenland and Faroes still held him up.

"Iceland? Is that you? What are you _wearing?_"

"Guys, bring him over here," Denmark ordered.

It was at this point that Iceland finally caught on to Denmark's plan - that brilliant, terrible plan that it was far too late to stop. And when he understood the purpose behind the wig, he resisted, shaking his head. He opened his mouth to gabble out a string of protests, but Norway suddenly rose out of Denmark's hold, crossing the room. He grabbed Iceland from Greenland and Faroes, hauling him into a tight hug that shocked the words out of him.

"You're crazy," Norway said in Iceland's ear, "And I love you. How did you ever come up with this?"

Iceland struggled for an answer. Norway released him when he did not immediately reply, and Iceland staggered, to be caught by a hasty lunge from Faroes, who steadied him. Norway frowned at this behavior, and Iceland became uncomfortable, aware that he was being scrutinized. Carefully, Norway reached up and thumbed a bruise on Iceland's head, puzzled.

"What happened here?"

"Accident," Denmark interjected, popping up like a mole.

"He was beaten," Greenland corrected flatly.

"We'll get to that later," Denmark said hurriedly, pulling Norway's arm. "Guys, come on. Hurry up and get him to the bed, now!"

Greenland and Faroes looked like they, too, were bound for rebellion. But one scathing, hateful look from Denmark, out of Norway's sight, made them scramble. Miserably, Iceland let them lower him into the bed, to replace Norway, just as if he was nothing but a few pillows stuffed into Norway's clothes. Which, he realized angrily, would have been preferable. He didn't really need to ask himself why Denmark had chosen to deck him out in garb instead.

He would have called out as the group shuffled out the door. And he almost did, before Norway glanced back at him and gave him a final, grateful smile. There was so much relief in that look that Iceland stopped himself, acting on nothing more than a whim of the moment, and allowed them to escape into the night.


	7. Bad Hair Day

This time, Iceland woke to a string of curses.

He didn't want to open his eyes. He was sore, tired and terrified, for he recognized the _calculated_ lack of sanity in that voice. The owner of that voice was shuffling about very close by, and every step that approached made Iceland's heart hammer away ever faster.

So, of course, he jumped a mile when something touched his chest.

"Jesus! What, were you dreaming or something?"

Now, Iceland slowly, tentatively opened one eye. His anxiety did not improve when he saw Sweden, decked in PJs, towering above him. All manner of paranoias crashed through Iceland's head. He wondered why Sweden hadn't gotten his sword out and hacked him to bits yet. On this thought, Iceland ran his hands briefly over his torso, just to be sure that he hadn't already been impaled. No, there was no sword there... and Sweden wasn't angry. In fact, by the way he was staring blankly...

Ah. Well, there was the last part of Denmark's plan.

"I need your help, Norway," Sweden said. "I swear I put my glasses on the bed stand last night, but they aren't there and I can't see to find them. Come help me look."

An uncontrollable twitch formed under Iceland's eye, and he just lay there, gawking stupidly as Sweden kept waving his arms about blindly. When Iceland did not reply, Sweden prodded at him, frowning.

"What's the matter?" he demanded. "Moose got your tongue? If you stole my glasses..."

"I'll help you look," Iceland said carefully.

There was the faintest hint of suspicion in Sweden's expression now. He squinted down, coming far too close for comfort as he tried to see more clearly.

"Are you sick? Your voice is a little off..."

"Yeah, sore throat," Iceland lied, forcing himself to move as he edged to the other side of the bed, away from Sweden.

"Well, after we find my glasses, I'll get you some medicine."

Iceland had to think fast - that suspicion had not left Sweden's face. Desperate to keep up the ruse, Iceland made a serious effort to sit up and swing his legs over the edge of the bed. He ignored the screaming protest from the welts on his muscles, and climbed to his feet, wobbling like a lame duck as he directed all his attention on putting one foot in front of the other.

He managed to lead the way slowly out of the room. Sweden followed him, thankfully just as unsteady walking. Iceland figured he would have plenty of time to carry out some unbelievably brilliant plan while he 'searched' for Sweden's glasses. Of course, he actually had to have a plan for that to work.

So focused was he on the panic of his dilemma that he did not noticed how close Sweden was behind him until it was much too late.

Unable to judge distance, Sweden simply bumbled straight into Iceland, while Iceland overbalanced into the wall, and the pair of them toppled to the ground. Iceland pressed his forehead into the carpet and bit back all manner of sailor's curses, reminded in that exact moment where everything and then some hurt. When he was certain he could move again without aching too badly, he rolled onto his back, and really wished he hadn't.

Sweden was already back on his feet... only, he was no longer paying any attention, and did not offer to lend a hand to help Iceland up. In fact, his hands were full, and Iceland was too late to stop a bleat of horror escape. His hands shot up to his head at the exact same moment that he recognized the bundle of fluff in Sweden's grasp.

Neither of them were able to speak at this point. Sweden's face went through so many emotions so fast that it probably needed some kind of epilepsy warning label for safety. Iceland looked about for some kind of method he could write his final will on, short of scratching it into the wall with his fingernails. Sweden took a step forward, gawking.

"You're not Norway," he said slowly.

"Yeah, I've been getting that a lot lately. Do you think I should change my name to Not Norway?"

"But you're _not Norway_. You're... you..." Sweden shook his head, and finally, _finally_, his shock began to turn. "Iceland..."

"Hmm?"

"You have about five seconds to tell me where Norway is before I make you eat this wig off the tip of my sword."

Iceland regarded the threat. "Go on, then."

"Tell me where he is!"

"Why? You've already figured that out; you're just too mad to see it. Kill me. It'll save _him_ the trouble later."

In spite of his blindness, Sweden huffed and began to pace, slapping himself in the forehead repeatedly, until a step too far allowed the wall the courtesy of hitting him instead. When he recovered, he turned on Iceland again, reached down to grab him, missed, then reached again. Iceland yipped as Sweden grabbed him by the ear and twisted, forcing him to sit up.

"Take me out to that bastard's house!" Sweden screeched, while Iceland squirmed in his grip.

"OW!" Iceland balked. "Make your own way!"

Sweden grabbed his other ear now. "Take. Me. _Now_."

"I can't even walk, Sweden! Christ, stop! That _hurts!_"

Ignoring his protests, Sweden slowly directed Iceland to his feet, by both ears. Wincing and still weakly trying to free himself, Iceland could do little else but awkwardly walk, guiding Sweden along out the door, his ears burning. On the way down to the dock, Sweden muttered oaths to himself.

"He _lost_. Norway is _mine_. Why the hell won't he see that?! God, when I get my hands on that little-"

"It's your fault for taking Norway in the first place!" Iceland interrupted.

"Shut up! Keep walking."

Iceland did as he was told, leading all the way to the nearest sailboat and bumbling in after Sweden.

For the second time, Iceland crossed the Oresund, but this time he did not have his brother's warm duvet to cover him. He worked at the sail, cold and shivering, while Sweden occasionally swatted at him out of impatience, stewing in rage, plotting and revenge.

Denmark's place looked slightly less imposing than Sweden's did, and the daylight loaned it less intimidation. As Iceland directed the boat into the dock, he glanced up at the flagpole on shore...

...and beheld a Norwegian flag.

"What the hell?" he muttered.

Sweden didn't notice it. He shoved Iceland forward, pointing sternly in the direction of Denmark's home.


End file.
